


Tickle Me Pink

by Batsymomma11



Series: Blark Files [10]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Crack, Feels, Fluff, I REGRET NOTHING, M/M, Slice of Life, Tickling, Tickling is Extortion, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Waffles in Bed, Whipped Cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 06:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17299397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Tickling Bruce is an art form. And it has many, many rewards.





	Tickle Me Pink

**Author's Note:**

> Blark makes me happy. I enjoy writing them so very much. This is crack--pure and simple. Straight up got home from dropping my kiddo off at ABA therapy and plunked this out like it was candy. 
> 
> I do not own DC or its characters. I do own this story.

                “Clark—stop. I mean it.”

                “Do you? You don’t sound genuine enough.”

                “Clark, if you don’t let me go now—I’m going to—I’m going to hurt you. I will make you pay for this.”

                He squirms under my hands, velvet coated steel writhing with nowhere to go. Power and sinew trapped like a worm under a deluge of unforgiving rain. I have no interest in offering mercy. Not even a little.

                “Clark—C-Clark!” he tries to growl, tries to sound menacing above the thread of panic in his voice but only manages to make himself appear that much weaker, that much closer to what I really want.

                The narrow bones of his wrists in my hand feel fragile and delicate. Human. So very human. His skin is warm, dusted pink from exertion and peppered like diamonds beneath the sweat from all his attempts to escape. There’s something wild in his eyes. The wild drives my pleasure in what I’m doing to him higher. Makes me all the more determined to get what I set out to do. I’m not even using an eighth of my strength to pin him. No. Not even that.

                We both know it.

                I can see it in the expanded ring of his pupils. The way his breath is coming out choppy and strained, like an animal caught by the hunter but with no choice but to act according to his instincts. Instinct demands freedom. It demands that Bruce fight me to get free no matter the cost to himself.

                But my touch is light. My hand binding his wrists over his head is feather soft as it cages him. It likely angers him more. That it takes so little of me to do this to him.

                Fingers skate over heated flesh, dipping along curves that are as familiar to me as my own. I trace scars with the pads of my left hand, lightening my touch as it meanders over his chest, down his right side and finds—

                “Clark, I swear to—I swear to God,” he blows out a breath, “please. Oh fuck,” he makes a choked noise, something between a snarl and what I’ve been going for all along, the sweet music in my ears—a _laugh_. And I smile. I smile wide and I let him see it.

                Bruce bucks up when I find the place that always works, on his sixth rib and dance pressure along the contours of it. Such a sensitive span of skin. So many nerve endings firing and sending confusing messages to the brain of _too much!_

                “Clark,” Bruce scrabbles, heels drumming into the mattress, desperation making him sloppy, hair getting more snarled by the minute in the pillow under his head, “You’ll—you’ll—” he snickers, chokes, abandons that then makes a noise that sounds like he might be dying. It quickly blooms into the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

                A full-blown, unabashed laugh. The muscles in his stomach contract tight, his obliques flex under my ministrations and I add a little pressure, wiggling my fingers more purposefully, till Bruce is thrown into a fit of laughter.

                Bruce is beautiful when he belly-laughs. Head thrown back, deep voice light and loose, body bowed up like a plucked cello string. It’s the single greatest joy of my life to make Bruce laugh like this. To tickle him mercilessly till he’s murderous but can do nothing about it.

                Years fall away, crinkles and scars. He becomes a child, mirthless and wild. Something precariously caught in time, an insect stashed in amber, and it’s a treasure to see. It’s a gift.  

                I don’t let him up till tears are in the corners of his eyes and he’s panting for breath, the laugh breaking into peels of undignified snorts and giggles. His face is so red it matches the color of my cape.

                “M-mercy, Clark,” he manages after a gasping breath, “Please!”

                I should stop. I should let him up. I’ve already pushed him enough and if I don’t stop, he might not feel so forgiving if he loses control over his bladder too. He might actually kill me for that.

                I hesitate, pressing my lips together as I consider him and Bruce sags into the mattress. He’s lax now, an exhausted predator merely waiting for his own opportunity to kill. I keep my grip on his wrists firm enough to remind him who has the upper hand and remain seated on his thighs. When I put my free hand over his belly button and let it rest there, the muscles jump beneath it involuntarily.

                There is something decidedly irresistible about getting Bruce to this point. About dominating him like this when he so easily dominates me in every other avenue of our lives. I can’t help that I’m greedy and want to savor it.

                “What would you give me to stop, Bruce?”

                Bruce licks his lips, measures me with a carefully neutral look, “Anything.”

                “Liar.”

                “What do you want? Name it.”

                “Waffles in bed.”

                Bruce blinks at me, “Done.”

                I smirk at him, draw a circle with the pad of my thumb over his hip. He squirms a little, the muscles of his throat working as he tries to keep himself from making a sound. It wouldn’t take much to get him back to where he was. Laughing so hard he’s crying. Completely uncontrolled. It’s a heady thought to know he let’s me close enough to do this to him. That inside these four walls he let’s his guard down and only I get to see him like this.

                “And if I want to do a marathon of Grey’s Anatomy?”

                Bruce grimaces, “Clark, seriously—” he chokes off and peels into a giggle when I quickly dig my fingers into his ribs, “Shit—merciless—f—f—fuck! Fine!”

                “Really?”

                “Blackmailing, evil, disgusting—”

                “Bruce,” I threaten, having far too much fun at his expense. His eyes flash murder at me.

                “I said fine. I’ll do it.”

                I almost, almost start tickling him again. Because I could. Because it will never get old watching Bruce come undone at the seams like this. But I don’t.

                I let his wrists go first, keeping my weight on his thighs as he immediately draws those wrists to his chest, guarding his sides with a dark glint in his gaze. He looks a little like a cat who got tossed into a bathtub. It’s adorable.

                I know what he’ll do next. Because this isn’t my first rodeo caging a Bat and I see the decision for revenge closely mirrored by something else that makes my chest ache and my blood hum. I let him reverse our positions. It’s no hardship to have Bruce’s body pressing mine down into the mattress, to have him fisting a handful of my hair, curving my throat up for his mouth to torture. I groan into the contact, pleased he’s chosen to punish me this way.

                When I would have let him pretty much do anything to me.

                “Bastard,” he hums into my skin, laving my throat with attention, then my collarbones, then my chest. I’m quickly losing coherent thought and welcome it.

                What this man does to me is criminal.

                I’m vaguely disappointed when I hear Alfred’s slippers padding down the hall with clear intent towards our bedroom. Bruce hears it too, a moment later, after he’s already started divesting me of my briefs. He goes stiff, irritation wrinkling his nose, bristling down his frame. The cat metaphor is never more accurate. If he had hackles, they’d be like needles down his spine. He growls, throws the comforter over the both of us then presses into my side with a melodramatic sigh. All before Alfred knocks politely and then enters. It takes a great deal of effort not to start cackling.

                “Good morning, sirs.”

                Bruce glares from his pocket of the bed and I pinch him under the covers, hard enough to make him shoot me a dirty look.

                “Good morning, Alfred.”

                “I’ve brought up the waffles you requested.”

                I smile at him, a warmth glowing in my middle and down into my toes. It’s happiness. Joy. All the good things that come with having found my niche in the world and having found love with the surly creature at my side.

                “Thank you. It smells delicious.”

                Alfred pushes in a breakfast cart. Arranges a few things, sniffs delicately, then leaves the way he came. I’m already slipping out of bed to start serving us up by the time Bruce finally joins me. His presence is a dark smudge at my side with huffs and grumbly curses under his breath, as he fixes a plate then climbs back into bed. He stabs at his waffles like they’ve personally affronted him.

                “You did promise me waffles in bed Bruce.”

                He chews, rolls his eyes, “That was extortion.”

                I shrug, “You can’t deny Alfred’s waffles are divine.”

                Bruce doesn’t answer. But he keeps eating. He even cleans his plate, something he almost never does, then drinks an entire cup of coffee in silence. With Bruce, there are many silences. Very few of them are uncomfortable. I’ve grown to expect and enjoy the quiet spaces we share, the brushed hands and steady looks. Bruce is king of saying a great deal without ever even opening his mouth. It’s something I admire about him.

                When we’ve both finished and he’s rearranging back into bed, as if to go back to sleep, I’m already smiling as I dip to retrieve the can of whip cream off the breakfast cart. The sound of the cap being popped off brings Bruce’s eyes to mine and he stops fiddling with the comforter to watch me. I watch him right back and spray a hefty dose of cream into my mouth, grinning widely when he watches my throat work through the swallow.

                It takes two more swallows of whipped cream and one very pointed look to have Bruce growling, “Get over here.”

                I obey easily.   

                I wordlessly hand the can of whipped cream over, like being caught with contraband and having it confiscated and watch as Bruce’s eyes darken and his jaw flexes.

                “Any ideas what we could do with this?”

                Bruce wipes cream off the applicator with his thumb, sucks it off. “A few.”

                “Am I forgiven yet?”

                Bruce’s laugh is different this time than the desperate peels I forced out of him before. It’s deep and throaty. Delicious on my ears. I like all of the noises he makes. The growls, the snarls, and the hisses. The groans and moans. The laughs—and every form they come in. I’m an addict when it comes to Bruce and the feeling is mutually shared.

                “Are we still going to watch Grey’s Anatomy after this?”

                I consider him as he arranges me on the bed, sprays a big dollop of cream onto my stomach and dips to lap it up.

                “Yup.”

                Bruce growls, sends shivers down my spine as the shadow of his morning whiskers tickle my skin, “Then no.”

                “I’m sure you can find some other—” I suck in a breath as his tongue does a wicked dance on my hip, “some other way to let me make up for it.”

                Bruce lifts his head, smiles one of his smiles that are just for me. Private, genuine, bright and unaffected. “I’m sure I can.”


End file.
